Hello, John
by Elvarya
Summary: It's been six months since Sherlock took his dive. John isn't coping very well. Now with slash, but no sex.
1. Chapter 1

This is my first attempt at any kind of Sherlock fanfiction. I am quite proud of it, though. Mostly, it's written out of Reichenbach ~feelings~ and yeah. I hope you enjoy it! (Oh, and this isn't meant to be slash, I swear. I ship these two like fedex, but this isn't meant to be them as a couple. Just one of the greatest friendships in the history of fictional characters.

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><p>It had been six months since the death of Sherlock Holmes.<p>

John liked to believe that he was moving on. Really, he did. He'd moved on from deaths of loved ones before, same as anybody. So why was this so difficult?

Sherlock was fantastic, absolutely fantastic. His closest friend, and the biggest enigma he'd ever known. It wasn't as if Sherlock had been particularly mysterious, he hadn't gone out of his way to be all that interesting. Mostly, John wondered how a man could go through 30+ years of life without knowing the simplest of things. And that was fascinating to him.

But he was gone. It'd been two months since he'd even gone to Sherlock's grave, four since he'd said anything to the dead bastard, and five since he'd shed a single tear. And that was how it should be, wasn't it? He wasn't forgetting Sherlock Holmes. He was just learning to live without him.

Which was definitely a struggle. His life had come to revolve around Sherlock. Around his frequent texts, summoning from the other side of London simply because his tea was slightly out of reach. The cases that kept him occupied and interested, that had built a bond between the men stronger than anything John had ever encountered.

And after six months, John should be able to cope with that. He should be able to smile without struggle, to walk around the flat without a lump rising to his throat and choking him with the stark reminder that Sherlock Holmes was _gone_.

He couldn't even bring himself to look at the deerstalker still sitting on the end of the mantle.

But it'd been six bloody months! He'd been a soldier, for Christ's sake. It wasn't as if Sherlock's death was the most gruesome he'd ever seen-not even close-or that Sherlock's was the first corpse he'd recognized. He wasn't the first person he'd known to commit suicide, either. Life of a soldier, as it was.

But Sherlock was different. Sherlock wasn't a soldier, or a saint. Half the time, John hadn't even been sure he was human!

Sherlock was just Sherlock.

The most interesting man in the world, he thought with the slightest chuckle, so small that it resembled a cough, really. He felt the muscles in his face pulling his lips into the faintest hint of a smile, but his mouth refused. It remained set in a firm, grim line.

"Damn you, Sherlock," John muttered. The clock on the table informed him that it was ten at night. He should probably get to sleep sometime soon. He had yet another job interview in the morning. Another hospital position he'd no doubt be fired from within the next month, told that he was a great doctor, but his current preoccupation prevented him from working properly. Maybe, he could come back when he could manage to focus on the work?

He was certain he'd never go back to any of those places. But he was qualified, and he needed the money. Mrs. Hudson, bless her, had given him a slight discount on the rent, but she never let him forget it, and it was spreading him a little thin in the monetary department.

"Did you hear me?" he murmured. He was aware of the fact that no one was listening. It didn't really seem to matter. "I said, damn you, Sherlock Holmes!" He rose to his feet, shouting the words, and then sank back down into the cushion, suddenly exhausted.

"I don't know what to do anymore," he confided to the open air. "Why can't you just be here? Why can't you just…not be…dead?" And he wept. He'd been bending to his breaking point for more than a while. His closest friend was dead, and the world had kept turning. How was that even possible.

In his pocket, his phone vibrated, bringing him back to reality. He quickly wiped away his tears and composed himself. No one could see him, he knew that. It didn't matter, though. The moment of weakness had passed. Time to face whoever was texting him now.

He pulled out the phone and flipped it open, then gasped, staring at the message in shock and disbelief.

"Hello, John. -SH


	2. Chapter 2

AN: A few things to note before we get to the angst. 1.) I was not originally intending to continue this. It was meant to be a one-shot, but I got so many favorites and story alerts yesterday, and a couple reviews and a couple people on tumblr asking me to continue, so I decided to continue it, and this happened. I don't know where this fic is going just yet, but we'll see! 2.) There are going to be two timelines in this fic. There will be Sherlock's, which starts in this chapter, and starts right after Reichenbach Fall ends, and there will be John's, which starts six months later. They'll move separately for the most part, but I promise, spoilah alert, they'll meet up by the end. 3.) Another spoilah alert, Mycroft shows up in this chapter! I'm mentioning this mostly because I realized that how I wrote it makes Mycroft seem like an asshole, and not in a good way. Let me make it clear, I LOVE Mycroft Holmes, and I especially love Mycroft Holmes as played by Mark Gatiss. I tried to write him honestly in this, to transfer the way he talks and interacts. Also, it's being written through a Sherlock lens, and he's generally irritated by Mycroft. So, if he seems like an asshole in this chapter, that was honestly not my intention. Just think of how the amazing Mark Gatiss plays him, and that's how it's meant to transfer. 4.) I'm going to apologize to the non-slash fans that might have read this yesterday. Yeah, it's going to be slash now, but no sex, I promise. But still, slash will be present in the form of their ~feelings~

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><p>John walked away with his head bowed, so lost in his grief that he didn't even notice Sherlock standing there. The consulting detective wasn't out in the open, but he wasn't particularly hidden either.<p>

_This isn't right_, he thought to himself, eyebrows furrowing. _Why was John sad? Hadn't he been _watching? Sherlock had told him to watch him, told him not to take his eyes off of him as he fell. John should have seen everything, seen how Sherlock survived the fall, how he fooled everyone, including, and most importantly, the snipers ready to take out the only family he knew.

So what had happened? Had it just been John demonstrating his unerring ability to be completely unobservant? But John was cleverer than that.

He hadn't doubted Sherlock, even at the end, when it was Sherlock's own voice confirming everything the press was shouting about him. The possibility that Sherlock was a fake had never even entered his mind. Not once.

So how could he believe him to be dead? It was insulting, really! Apparently, he'd been just a bit _too_ good with his miraculous escape from the fall.

This could be a problem.

So he went to Mycroft. The older Holmes brother didn't sound too surprised to get his phone call. Didn't even question it, though he did quickly ask to meet face to face. Differences aside, even Sherlock found that somewhat touching.

They met that very afternoon at a small, dim cafe. Dead or not, Sherlock was still recognizable. It'd been a couple days since his face had appeared in any tabloids, but his death had been a huge news story. He could't take the risk and walk around with his face completely uncovered.

He showed up in an ugly tartan jacket with a navy blue beanie concealing his hair. He looked almost nothing like all the pictures that had surfaced of him, and he figured he was safe, as long as he didn't draw too much attention to himself.

He walked from the small, run down flat he'd discreetly rented to the cafe, keeping his head down even when he wasn't around many people, glad to enter the warm air when he got to the place. He looked around and headed for the table in he corner that was, blessedly, empty. Mycroft hadn't arrived yet.

He took one of the two seats, the one that provided the better view of the rest of the room, and sat down to listen to the people around him. It was a habit he'd gotten into. It didn't provide him with any particularly useful information, but it was a focus. There was so much going on in a crowd, so much to see, hear, and experience. It could keep even his hyperactive mind occupied, at least for a short period of time.

Even observing the people around him, Mycroft didn't get far into the establishment before Sherlock saw him, fixing his gaze on his older brother to draw him over. He'd heard his name from a couple of people two tables over and didn't dare raise his voice for fear of being noticed.

Mycroft hurried over to the table. Although he tried to hide it, he was obviously relieved. "May I congratulate you," he said after sitting, his tone, as usual, one part sneer, two parts haughty sincerity. Sherlock cocked his head to the side, uncertain about his meaning. "On your death, I mean," the elder Holmes clarified. "Quite convincing indeed. Why, even your dear John believed it." Mycroft met his steadfast gaze as a bit more of the sneer crept into his tone. "How did you manage to fool them, may I ask? I assure you, they ran DNA tests. Your loyal Detective Inspector was in full-blown denial until the results came in!"

"DNA tests are only as good as the records you keep," he retorted with the tone of a repeated quote, but Mycroft was evidently unfamiliar with it's originator. He understood the meaning, though. Molly had helped him, and more than just a little. Probably enough that she'd be charged with something if she were ever caught.

Sherlock leaned forward and laced his fingers together, placing them just above his mouth. "And I'm not all to keen on the idea of John believing me to be dead, if I'm being honest," he admitted.

"Oh?" Mycroft said, raising a mental and vocal eyebrow. "I thought the point of your little scheme was to convince the world of your demise. Does that not include John?"

"The point of my 'little scheme' was to save John's life!" Sherlock clarified, voice rising before he reigned in his carefully kept control. "And that of Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson. I instructed John to keep his eyes on me, and if he'd followed my instructions, he would know that I am alive." Sherlock frowned. "Apparently, something went wrong, and I'm not sure how to rectify the situation."

"Are you coming to me for help?" To Mycroft's credit, his tone was mostly composed of incredulity. Only a _little_ bit of it was gloating.

"I'm coming to you because I have no choice," stated Sherlock, all trace of emotion from the moment before melting away, "and my current living situation is…insalubrious."

Mycroft rolled his eyes. "Fine, I'll find you a place. But Sherlock," he warned, "you're supposed to be dead. You'll need to keep a low profile, at least until we figure out what to do about this, shall we say, _delicate_ situation.


	3. Chapter 3

AN: Somehow, this has gone from being a oneshot to being the quickest updated fic I've ever written. I am okay with that! Thanks for all the favorites and subs, I guess. It's almost overwhelming, really. So much pressure! I'll try not to disappoint :3

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><p>John continued staring at the screen. He wasn't sure how long he held that position, hunched over the phone, eyes thrown wide and mouth hanging open, trying to make some sound, but completely incapable. Struck dumb by the unexpected and completely inexplicable message.<p>

What was he supposed to do? How was he supposed to respond?

How was one supposed to react in such a situation?

The phone vibrated again, and he quickly hit the button to open the message.

_I'm sorry. -SH_

And that was it. Without John making a conscious decision, the phone was at his ear and it was ringing. The dial tone sounded once, then there was a click as the phone was picked up and then the person on the other end hung up.

John swore and tried again, only to receive the same result. Rather than make another vain attempt, though, he stared down at the device and took a deep breath, maneuvering back to the text, fingers flying against the keypad and sending the message as quickly as he could.

_Sherlock?_

What else could he say? Nothing would really translate properly through text, and he wasn't picking up the phone.

And that's the moment when the doubt struck him. Was it really Sherlock? For all he knew it was someone with his number, someone playing some cruel trick on him. If he thought about it, he honestly believed that it was Sherlock on the other end, but was that because he sensed that Sherlock was alive or because he didn't want to believe the alternative? Was he seeking out every possibility that Sherlock was alive and ignoring logic?

Oh, Sherlock would be upset if he found out.

Twenty minutes passed, and there was no reply to the text. John grew increasingly restless, rising to his feet and pacing only to return to his chair a moment later. Why wasn't he responding? And why hadn't he let him know he was alive earlier?

Of course, all of these questions were permeated by his growing doubt. He wasn't sure what he should believe, what he should do.

Finally, he called Mycroft. It rang twice, before the familiar voice answered, though he hadn't heard it in some time. "Hello, John," the voice said. "To what do I owe this pleasure?"

"You know why I'm calling," John replied, and he couldn't quite keep the anger or annoyance out of his voice, try as he might.

"I have no clue what you're talking about," the voice on the phone said.

"Is he alive, Mycroft Holmes?" he demanded, shouting now. "For Christ's sake, is he alive?" John was aware that he probably sounded just a bit frantic, and he should probably try to calm himself, but he couldn't bring himself to care. Composure be damned, he needed to know the answer, from the mouth of one who'd lost Sherlock, as well.

"What kind of a question is that?" Mycroft demanded angrily. But John didn't miss the fact that _that wasn't an answer_. "Sherlock is my brother! You'll do well to remember that you aren't the only one who lost someone that day."

John's eyes widened. He hadn't missed the present tense. He clenched the phone tighter. "You're lying to me. You're hiding something, aren't you?" He was unaware of how much his voice was rising, but he heard a knock on the door. He ignored it. "Please, tell me!"

"John, I have to go," Mycroft said quickly, then there was a click and he was gone. John stood there for another moment, phone pressed tightly to his ear, eyes wide, every muscle in his body clenched.

The tension-filled silence was broken by a sharp rapping at the door, followed by Mrs. Hudson's voice, calling, "Mr. Watson, are you all right in there?" John rushed to the door and pulled her into the room, embracing her wildly. "Mr. Watson!" she sputtered incredulously. "What do you think you're doing?"

"He's alive, Mrs. Hudson!" John exclaimed. Any doubt he'd had was completely erased by the phone call to Mycroft. John found himself laughing, truly laughing, for the first time in so long as he repeated the news to Mrs. Hudson, spinning her as he'd seen Sherlock do on more than one occasion. "God's sake, he's alive!" John released her, rushing out of the flat and down the stairs. "I'm going to find him!" he called back up to her.

Mrs. Hudson stared after him in shock. "What do you mean?" she called back. "Where are you going to look?"

John turned back at the door. "I don't know!" John let out a hysterical laugh and spun back around. "Goodbye, Mrs. Hudson!"

He exited the place, walking out into the air of the mild night. More than a few people passed by, not even casting a glance towards him, but anyone who looked would see a man overjoyed, relief spilling across his features and evident in everything from the set of his face to the way he leaned against the wall and pulled out his cell phone, going through his contacts and selecting the name of just another person on the long list of people he'd met because of Sherlock Holmes and hadn't seen since the man's supposed death.

Lestrade picked up on the first ring. "Hello?" he started, obviously confused about the call. John had only called him once or twice before, and not at all since. "John, what is it?"

"Sherlock's alive," John informed him. "And I need your help to find him.


	4. Chapter 4

Sorry about the wait! I know, it's not as long as some waits, depending on the fic, but it's been what, a week? I posted three chapters within 24 hours, then I just didn't update... It feels like a while to me. I had this chapter half written on my desk top this entire week, and just needed to get around to finishing it. But I finally did, and here it is! Now with Lestrade! Somehow, this is turning into their stories mirroring each other or something... Idk how, it just is. This story is starting to get away from me, I'll admit that! Sherlock and John are piloting the ship now! Let's see where this goes ;3 (Oh, and the thing about the tartan jacket? Unless you're curious-which I'm honestly assuming not many people are-it's technically me referencing Good Omens. Because I fucking love Good Omens and sometimes I put in obscure, practically nonexistent little references for no reason. Yeah.) Oh, one more thing. I am not in any way British. I watch too much British television, sure, and more than a few people tell me I speak like a British person (not accent-wise, word-use wise) but I'm pretty sure that if I went to England, people would think I speak like an American person. But I have a point to this! I'm sorry if I get some of the British speech patterns wrong, if you know what I mean. I'm trying to make it seem like it's actually them talking, but it's hard, and I'm pretty sure I get some parts _way_ off. Either way, I hope you enjoy it!

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><p>As promised, Mycroft found him a small flat the next day. And when Sherlock said small, he meant smaller than the dilapidated one he'd been occupying while he hid out before. But at least it was reasonably clean. It was a basement, technically, and the heater didn't work, so Sherlock found himself wrapped in the ugly tartan coat and shivering under a blanket while he laid down on the mattress Mycroft had stretched out on the floor in lieu of an actual bed. It was musty, and he could see stains on the ceiling, and every time anybody above him moved around, he could hear it. It kept bothering him.<p>

This, it seemed, would have to go, as well. When was the soonest he could ask Mycroft for some kind of upgrade?

John would be able to tell him, wouldn't he? Too bad John was currently under the impression that Sherlock was dead. And he couldn't contact John now; even from beyond the grave, Moriarty could have someone monitoring John, watching for any indication that Sherlock was alive.

No, for now, he had to exercise restraint, though he wasn't very practiced. He would have to assure himself that he would be able to talk to John soon. He just had to figure something out.

Something like how to keep himself from dying of boredom. He didn't have a television, or a mobile phone-he'd called Mycroft earlier that day using a pay phone-and he hadn't exactly thought to bring any books with him when he'd jumped off that roof. And judging by the time, there wouldn't be anyplace that was open.

So how would he occupy the night's time?

He looked around the flat in disgust and finally stood and left, walking to the nearest pay phone. I really needed to find a better solution for this. I'd have to talk to Mycroft, probably tomorrow.

He walked into the cold night and looked around, heading for the nearest phone box, pulling the coins from his pocket as he pulled the phone from the cradle. He entered the coins and hesitated before dialing the familiar phone number. He hadn't actually _dialed_ the number that many times, but with a memory like Sherlock's, any number he'd seen more than three times on the screen of his cell phone was seared into his memory.

Three rings, and he heard a click and a voice.

"Hello?" John said. Sherlock remained silent. "Hello?" John repeated. "Who is this?" He sounded slightly irritated now. Sherlock opened his mouth to say something, but he waited too long and there was another click as John hung up.

Sherlock placed the phone back in the cradle and exited the phone box, going back to the small room and the sad mattress on the floor.

It was going to be a long night.

Sherlock kept his ear to the ground for a month before he heard anything. His greatest fear, the only thing that kept him from contacting John, was the possibility that there was still someone after him, and that whoever it was was monitoring John. He had to be sure that it was safe, for both of them, before doing anything.

Most of his information came from Mycroft, and the homeless network, though not all of them could be trusted. He was in an extremely difficult situation, and every passing day made him want to contact John even more, though he didn't dare pull the pay phone trick again. John would get curious, find out where the phone was and come snooping around the place. And probably discover Sherlock there. That was a little to close for comfort.

No, Sherlock had to keep his distance. The fact that he hadn't seen John since the cemetery was evidence of his restraint in the matter. Of course, he'd practically interrogated his brother on John's condition. He was still living at Baker Street, and he'd interviewed and started working at a hospital clinic to help cover the cost of the flat.

Mycroft had been insisting that Sherlock stayed in the flat, or didn't stray far, no doubt because he feared Sherlock was going to visit John, and Sherlock, for the most part, let his brother believe this. But after a month his brother began loosening up a bit on his grip on Sherlock, and he wasted no time in taking advantage of it.

He went to Lestrade. He waited outside the police station one afternoon, disguising himself with the horrid tartan jacket, beanie, and sunglasses. He checked his reflection before departing and barely recognized himself.

He sat on a nearby bench where he could easily see the Detective Inspector's car and waited.

Luckily, he didn't have to wait long. About ten minutes later, Lestrade walked out, heading towards his car. Sherlock rose to his feet and followed, slightly quicker, so that he was right behind Lestrade as the DI approached his car. Just as he was about to touch the door, he whirled on Sherlock, angrily demanding, "What do you want?"

"Hello, Lestrade," Sherlock greeted him.

Lestrade's eyes widened and his mouth fell open, before his gaze hardened. "You bastard!" he accused.

"Nice to see you, too, Detective Inspector," Sherlock said pointedly.

"You're telling me you've been alive this whole time?" Lestrade was visibly angry, but he made an effort to keep his voice down, so as to not attract much attention to them. Sherlock was, after all, supposed to be dead. "What the bloody hell, Sherlock?"

"It was…necessary," Sherlock replied.

"Oh, necessary, eh?" Lestrade said, nodding slightly, sarcasm evident in everything from his tone to the way he was now holding his body. "Necessary for what?"

"To keep all of you safe," Sherlock clarified.

"And why did we need to be kept safe?"

"Because Moriarty was going to kill you, Lestrade!" Sherlock exclaimed, practically shouted. "You, and John, and Mrs. Hudson. I had to do it, to call him off."

"Moriarty's dead," Lestrade pointed out. "So why haven't you told John?" He cocked his head, as if coming to a realization. "Or does John know and he just hasn't told me? I haven't seen him in, oh, about a month, I'd say." He gave the taller man a pointed look.

"No, John doesn't know, and yes, I know Moriarty is dead. That isn't my concern." Sherlock sounded slightly annoyed now. Had Lestrade always been this slow and dimwitted? Surely, to get the title of 'Detective Inspector,' one had to be at least slightly clever. Right?

"Then what is your concern, may I ask?" He noticed the look Sherlock was giving him and rolled his eyes. "Please, Sherlock? Just tell me already. You know, not everyone is as freaky smart as you are. Just explain yourself, for Christ's sake!"

"I'm worried that Moriarty may still have agents monitoring John, even though he is dead," Sherlock explained. "I can't risk contacting John until I'm sure."

Lestrade nodded and rolled his eyes again. "And you want my help in figuring it out."

"I can't do it on my own," Sherlock replied, refusing to lower himself to the level of asking for help. "And I need to do some digging into Moriarty's past and his associates." Sherlock swallowed, closed his eyes, cleared his throat, and then met Lestrade's gaze, choking out the words, though they greatly pained him. "Will you help me, Lestrade?


End file.
